


The Selection

by Magali_Dragon, NorthernLights37



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A fic in which we take a fairly usual trope, And we see what comes out, Apparently our existence is the source of much controversy, Blend it up with a novel series we both loved, Bran's dead because fuck him, But get real it's us, But it's not even really a slow burn, Canon-Era, Dany and Jon will be very Maxon and America for awhile, Enjoy!, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ever After assumed as always, Humor, Jon suspects he is a Targ, Medium Burn maybe, Minor 'The Selection' Easter Eggs found within, Romance, Some angst, The White Walkers are already dead, This fic is like a crack wishlist between the two of us, Throw in GOT, but canon-divergent in several areas, just two idiots in love, you'll see why - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:47:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28509174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magali_Dragon/pseuds/Magali_Dragon, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Daenerys prepares to take the Iron Throne when she comes to Westeros, and in the wake of her arrival she learns what lasting peace will cost: her hand in marriage.  And so, the call goes out, to the eligible Lords of the Realm, including the King in the North, who has no desire to be anything more than just that.But can they resist each other, once together?
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 148
Kudos: 421





	The Selection

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, kids!
> 
> It's us, your favorite assholes, your go-to gals for a laugh and some smut with maybe some feels thrown in. I think most of you probably read both of us, because if you like my stuff you'll like Magali's, and vice-versa. We're so similar in our writing styles that I think that's what prompted this original idea in a late night text session in which we were discussing our quarantine reading lists and realized we both loved 'The Selection' and the whole trope behind it. But it wasn't even so much the 'choose a man/woman and poof married' set up, it was putting Jon and Dany in a similar, more canon-appropriate setting (which we have, with some changes of course hehe), but to have them mirror Maxon and America's attitudes towards this in the novel series - a sort of grudging 'neither of us want this but we could be friends' that turns into a 'uh oh sure does look like we're in love' at a rapid pace.
> 
> Add in the Arya/Dany BFF relationship we were denied in the show, a Jon who know before he meets Dany that he MIGHT be a Targ (but has a canon-typical attitude about it because AVUNCULAR RELATIONSHIPS ARE NOT INCEST IN CANON WESTOROS AHHHHH), a few people we just wanted alive because we love them (you'll see) and this fic is what you get.
> 
> Now, to the juicy bit, probably the reason you're all here. Apparently my dear little Magali committed the cardinal sin, when teasing this fic on tumblr, of referring to these gathered lords as 'bachelors'. It was off to the races as accusations began to fly as, suddenly, from a tease alone there were parties convinced that we had clearly copied a fic by atetheredmind and were dirty rotten fic stealers OF THE HIGHEST ORDER!
> 
> It is, of course, odd to make those accusations when you haven't read the fic. At all. A fic we've been teasing since the summer in various places, the collaboration that was promised, but that's where we find ourselves. Now, Magali and I are both of the opinon that sunlight is, as always, the very best disinfectant. We had no intention of posting this fic, yet - it's the fic that we play with between all of our OTHER fics, but considering the accusations at play we thought it best to let you, the readers, decide for yourselves.
> 
> So here you go - and please know to expect the following:
> 
> -Davos and Barristan - shipping it hard with great speed  
> -Arya - will 'Parent Trap' Jon and Dany several times. They stop caring after the first few.  
> -Dragons  
> -Magic  
> -Targ Shit times 1000  
> -Jon not being a dummy  
> -Dany not being naive  
> -Hopefully all the things you've come to expect from us and our collected body of work :)
> 
> We're just out here trying to write fics. We don't steal ideas. We don't need to. In fact, I, Lights, can say without a shadow of a doubt that Mags is the very first person I share my fic ideas with, and there's no one I trust more. Literally. The only problem I've ever had is her being like YES WRITE IT I NEED IT STOP EVERYTHING, and vice versa, like we don't have fifty other fics in progress. We are out of control like that.
> 
> We hope you enjoy, and fear not, this story will be finished, but we cannot promise a specific timeframe quite yet. Wishing everyone the very happiest (and hopefully drama-free) of New Year's.
> 
> -Lights and Mags

  
  


* * *

**  
Dragonstone**

A storm raged outside the stone walls of the Keep; The nighttime sky illuminated, every now and then, by brilliant silver-blue streaks of lightning. Dragonstone was meant to feel like home, the home she had searched for, the home she had finally reclaimed, but on this night it felt cold and inhospitable.

The tempest outside was nothing compared to the one that was brewing within her. You don’t want to wake the dragon do you, her brother always warned, and now she truly understood. Mayhaps her advisors could do with that warning now. She turned away from the window, aware of the eyes that lay heavily upon her, and returned to the Painted Table. “These are the terms you bring me?” She cocked her head at Tyrion, a brow arching as she met his regretful look with a stare far steadier than she felt. “This is what they seek?”

It was the formidable Lady Olenna who responded, her many jeweled rings glittering in the occasional flashes of light, glowing from the firelight that spilled from the braziers. “All things considered, a rather small thing to ask, for such a bloodless way to win all this support.” She spread a hand before to, to the ravens Tyrion had presented, ravens from all the Great Houses that meant to stand with her against Cersei, to back her claim over the Usurper’s Wife. She chuckled, somewhat amused, eyes glittering like the jewels in her rings. “And perhaps a quite enjoyable one too, should you make the right choice.”

But, as the Queen of Thorns knew, like all things worth having, there would be a price to pay. She was not naive to the ways of the world, far from it, and she had certainly known something like this would lay in her future, but here it was, now, laid before her, and she was filled with the overwhelming urge to run. It seemed so much more palatable when it was just a reason to use to end things with Daario and did not have such an imminent threat to it.

“Marriage,” Daenerys muttered, her stomach twisting sickly, thunder rumbling overhead. She nodded, slowly, eyes dropping from her advisors to study each dip and curve of this painted map that Aegon had commissioned, all these kingdoms that lay just within her grasp almost taunting her now. She let out a slow, heavy breath, and brushed her hands against the stiff skirts of her overcoat, finding Ser Barristan where he stood to her left. She sought him now, always the voice of reason. “What say you, Ser?”

The old Knight looked thoughtful, pensive, his brow slightly wrinkled with something she suspected was worry. But he was resolute, his voice steady and unwavering, when he answered. “I think it is the best course of action. But,” he continued, stroking thoughtfully at his chin, “I think Her Grace is entitled to at least one condition.”

Tyrion managed to uncouple his mouth from his wineskin. He coughed, wary. “Such as?”

“If their support is conditional on her Grace marrying a son of Westeros, one of their own, then it must be made clear to them that the choice is solely hers. Let them come here, let her meet them, and then let her choose.” The little huff of laughter and the knowing half-smile Barristan sent her way eased the ache in her chest, just a bit, just enough. She had had so little choice in these matters in the past, the sick weight in her belly lessening somewhat at the notion she could have agency here. “And if you find any of them too aggravating, I’ll arrange for an accident. Those cliffs are very high, you know, and the drop is quite far.” He quirked his brows at her, making her laugh in return, and she trailed her fingers along the shape of the Riverlands. It was a joke, but she could not help but think there was underlying truth there.

Varys finally chimed in, from his post by the hearth; He’d been staring into the flames for so long that she’d thought he’d stopped paying attention, but of course that wasn’t the case. The Spider was always waiting, always watching. “I daresay it might be poorly received if we dispose of the unsuitable matches for Her Grace.”

“No, of course not,” Daenerys said quietly, fiddling with the edge of her sleeve. She cleared her throat, raising her head to find Tyrion studying her intently. She had a choice here too. She was the Queen. “Six moons.”

“Beg your pardon?” 

The Queen’s fingers slid across the painted image of The Reach, deep fertile lands represented in dark mahogany. “I want a moon to make my choice. I will not marry a stranger, not again. And while I am not foolish enough to believe I will marry for love, I am also not foolish enough to make this decision rashly. Whoever he is, this man will be my King Consort, a position of no small import.” Another ragged sigh escaped, another boom of thunder sounded, another wash of silver blue light filled the chamber. “Send your ravens, Lord Hand. Tell them to send their sons, and amongst them I will choose a husband.”

“A wise decision, Your Grace,” Tyrion said gravely, and left the room at once, Varys trailing behind like a shadow. No doubt both would be stepping over the other to discuss the implications and spin out the future. She resumed her post at the window, watching lighting flash and crawl in lacy patterns against the stormy black sky.

A hand on her shoulder finally stole her attention away, and she turned her head to find Olenna Tyrell fixing her with something like commiseration in her eyes. “Will you take some advice from an old woman? One who has far more in common than these swordswingers who claim to know a thing about the heart?” Gnarled hands gripped tight to a wooden cane topped with a flowering rose, and Queen of Thorns leaned heavily on it as she studied Daenerys’s face, a small smile flirting on her painted pink lips.

“I would appreciate it, my Lady.”

With a silent laugh, Olenna nodded, eyes trained on the sky, Dany’s locked onto the woman’s profile as she began to speak. “I have done,” the woman paused, then sighed, “terrible things in my life. Dreadful things, some that I regret, and some that I don’t. But that is the way of the world. Sometimes, to get what we want, we must do things we absolutely abhor, things we swore to ourselves we would never do again.” Slowly, so slowly, Olenna’s head turned, and it was understanding there in those watery green depths, she was sure of it, now. “I want to make sure you understand something, something I have learned over many, many years of plots and games and deeds best spoken of in the light. These sons of Westeros? Those who advise you? Those who will now come to beg your hand? To beg for the power of a place at your side? In your bed?” Olenna scoffed, a disgusted look flashing across her aged face. “They’re sheep.”

A laugh rose, unbidden, a bitter thing that hurt as it escaped her lips. She knew there was truth in that. She did not have so many years to her credit as the woman beside her, but she certainly knew how easily swayed a man could be. And she had no doubt that among the number that would come would be many pampered, soft-handed Lords who wished to drink her wine and rut away on top of her and pretend in their own minds that they were the most powerful man in the world.

They would try to take, and take, and take, because that’s the world they knew, the world she was trying to forge into something new.

Daenerys nodded, hands clasping before her body, rocking back on her booted heels. “I’m quite certain you’re right.”

“But not you,” Olenna continued, lips twitching. She was in her element now, Dany thought, and watched the shifting firelight in the elder woman’s blue gaze. “You are no helpless sheep, dear girl. You are no innocent lamb, being led to slaughter. Are you?” 

Dany tilted her chin, eyeing the woman pensively before she responded, considering her words. Perhaps she was approaching this incorrectly. She was no tender maid. She was no helpless lady. She had seen horror enough for this life and the next, had fixed her sights on her goal, and now it was here, at last.

No, she was no sheep, she thought, and straightened, holding her head a bit higher when she answered. “I am a dragon.”

A vicious sort of smile, cunning and wise crossed the old woman’s face, and she tucked a finger under Dany’s chin, her head bobbing in agreement. “Precisely,” came a fierce whisper. “You are a dragon. BE a dragon.” Olenna pursed her lips, and raised a brow. “You have a choice, something many of us never had, something you have not either, if the tales I’ve heard are true.” She clucked her tongue and pulled away, gathering her skirts in one hand as the other gripped her cane more tightly. “Choose wisely. You’ll know what’s right, when the time comes.”

Then she turned on her heel to scowl at Barristan, who’d taken up a post beside the chamber doors, no doubt hearing the entire exchange, though his face was a mask if disinterest. “Come on you old bag of bones, escort an old lady to her chambers.”

Barristan checked his gaze to the Queen’s, not budging until she gave a dip of her chin in approval, then silently offered his arm to Olenna.

Together, they left the room, in a swish of heavy skirts and the light clinking song of the chain mail Barristan wore.

Daenerys waited until they were well and truly gone, until two of her Unsullied took positions outside the chamber doors and closed them right at her gentle request.

Then she sat at the massive, intricate table, placed her elbows upon the painted sea, and put her head in her hands.

She would have to do this, and resolve herself to the life she was choosing for herself. A Queen was a servant to her people, and if some foolish high born was the price she must pay to protect them, then she could accept life on those terms. And acceptance, it seemed, must begin tonight.

————-

**Winterfell**

  
  


“Jon!” The door to the solar, the one he now used as King in the North, the one his father had used as Warden, flew open, Sansa’s shrill declaration making Jon wince. It was never a pleasant thing, hearing his sister’s demands. He tossed a put-upon look to Arya, who had perched herself in the window sill like a cat, and was steadily carving away at an apple with a dagger that was far too nice for the task.

She just rolled her eyes and chewed, leaving Jon to address a rather flustered Sansa, who stood before the grand wooden desk, red-faced and panting, a piece of parchment clutched tightly in her hand.

His only relief came in that Sansa had not marched in looking vexed, as she usually did, ready to tell him yet another way in which he was going about his newfound role as King in precisely the wrong way.

No, today she looked oddly excited, happy even, and it had the strange result of making him even more on edge as to what had her so worked up this time.

“Something wrong?” He kept his voice light, but he truly didn’t want to know the answer to that. In his estimation, everything was wrong, every day, always some new annoyance to stir up this Lord or that, or some emergency that was anything but, always something he had to involve himself in. It had seemed an unlikely honor, in the aftermath of the Bolton defeat, when the Northern Lords had named him their King. The Bastard King, he’s heard them mutter when they thought he was out of earshot. Nevertheless, it had stirred something within him, something that had always secretly longed for such esteem, though he doubted he’d ever dare to admit such out loud.

Now, most days, he wondered who in their right bloody mind would ever ask for all this, the headache and the constant, never-ending scrutiny, all these games that he had no desire to play. He just wanted to see to the North, to his home, to his people. But a task that had seemed relatively simple moons ago now proved more complicated by the day. No wonder his father had always seemed far older than his years. And that was only as Warden.

Sansa looked back and forth between Jon and Arya, clearly beside herself, allowing a small nod to Ser Davos where he sat tossing scraps of freshly butchered boar to Ghost near the blazing hearth. “It’s the most wonderful news!” She stepped forward, dropping the wrinkled missive onto the desktop, then gestured with a flourish, supremely pleased. Her smirk ruined her otherwise pretty face. “See for yourself.”

With no small amount of trepidation he smoothed the parchment flat; it was clearly a raven, and scanning the greeting it appeared it had been meant for him. Annoyance ripples through him, voice snappish. “How many of my ravens have you been opening?” 

If Sansa heard his suspicious tone she ignored them, though a quick glance towards Arya showed his youngest sister frowning and scowling. Sansa blithely carried on, waving a dismissive hand. Of course she cared little for things like privacy, especially when it came to ruling the North.

“Don’t be silly. Read it!”

Reluctantly, he decided not to press the matter further, not now, at least, and silently read the message.

Then he laughed, loudly, and tossed the raven back on the desk. No wonder she was so thrilled. “Certainly not.” He shook his head adamantly, already bracing himself for the argument he knew was brewing. 

The change in Sansa was swift and sudden, her eyes flashing dangerously as she stomped forward, pointing a finger at him, mouth set in a firm line. “You must go, Jon. Surely you see that. I find it hard to believe you could be so dim that you cannot see the benefit of this. Of what it would mean for the North. For your people.” She planted her palm on the desk and leaned forward, eyes narrowed to slits as she ground out her next words. The words she always fell back on, though sometimes he thought they meant little to her when it came to her life. “Your family.”

Jon didn’t budge, giving her a warning glare, even as Arya slipped up beside him and plucked the raven from the desk. She was now roped in, curiosity getting the better of her. “What are you two on about?”

Jon leaned back, tongue slipping across his teeth as he stewed in his anger. He’d reached his limit, or nearabouts, on how much he was willing to take where it came to Sansa’s blatant disrespect for him. At times he thought she rather fancied herself the true power in the North, for she certainly did her level best to convince him that what she thought best truly WAS best, even when there was no actual basis for it. It was akin to be treated like a child, or a dullard, and he was neither. He might be a bastard, the insult they used when he did things they all disagreed with, but being born out of marriage vows had zero affect on his mental faculties. If anything, he played stupid just to see the responses. And then get what he wanted.

But he forced himself to look to Arya, frown deepening when he saw the way her eyes lit up as they travelled across the words on the parchment. “Bloody hells,” she whispered, gaze flicking up to Jon briefly before reading the rest.

Across the room, Davos cleared his throat meaningfully. “Would one of you lot like to enlighten the rest of us about just what is going on?”

When Arya spoke next, and he heard the true excitement in her voice, heard the way each word carried a suspicious tremble, he knew this battle was lost. It was one thing to face off with Sansa. He could refuse to budge and eventually decorum, if nothing else, would make her back down. But when it came to Arya, it was hard to say no, and it was very easy to see where her mind leapt as she began to read the message aloud.

“ _To the King in the North, Jon Snow,_

_I do hope this message finds you well. I cannot tell you how pleased I was to hear that the North is held by the Starks once more, with you to lead them. As I am sure you know, the Dragon Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne, has returned to Westeros, with armies beyond number and three fully-grown dragons at her command. An accord has been reached between those who oppose my sister, and in return for the combined support of the Great Houses of Westeros in deposing Cersei from the Throne, she has agreed to take one of our number as her King Consort, with all the titles and honors such status bestows. I hereby humbly invite you to journey here, to Dragonstone, and present yourself for consideration. Such an alliance might finally bring peace and unity to these lands once more. Wishing you the safest of travels, until we next meet,_

_Tyrion Lannister, Hand to the Queen_.”

Davos sat, silent, mouth hanging open, a strip of meat dangling from his fingers, until finally he seemed to collect himself. “She’s looking for a husband.” The slow smile that began on the man’s face made Jon’s stomach sink. He knew what that meant, seven hells. Three against one, now, and he didn’t care for those odds. Ghost snatched the meat from Davos’s hand and slinked over to where Jon sat, the lone occupant of the room who appeared to notice Jon’s distress. Three against two, he thought bitterly, a hand falling to his wolf’s neck, seeking the steadying comfort the animal provided.

“I’m sure,” Sansa began, starting a slow pacing circuit, “that I do not need to explain the many ways this would be of benefit to us all. I’m sure you are well aware that Cersei MUST be made to pay for what she has done to our family.” She whirled, dark skirts flying, pinning him with a steel-eyed stare. “You must do this, Jon. And more than that, you must convince her to choose you.”

There were things Jon possessed a certain aptitude for, that much he knew. He could lead men, rouse the fight in their hearts, the fire of war that lived within them. Jon could make war all on his own, could make his sword sing, could kill with an ease that, from time to time, gave him pause. These were his gifts, death and war, and he had used them, had defeated his enemies, had seen the Night King fragment into a thousand tiny pieces, even as Jon bled out into the snow.

But it was Robb who had possessed the gifts this request would require, Robb who could turn a phrase that would make a maiden blush and swoon. Robb had been raised to play these games and fight these wars, not Jon.

Not for the first time, or even the thousandth, he wished Robb were here. Robb would know how to do this. He had always flushed and stumbled and preferred the silence and the shadows to the open sunniness required for wooing.

He swiped a tired hand down his face, meeting Sansa’s glare with one of his own. “No, sister, you do not. I am well aware of the enemy to the South. I know she must be made to pay. Perhaps I am just surprised, that you would so readily give over the North, just as we’ve won at back. You would have me bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen?”

That made Sansa shift nervously, eyes darting around the room. “You wouldn’t be, not really. A marriage alliance would bring more power to the North, to House Stark, not less. And as her King—“

“King Consort,” Jon interjected tersely. There was a difference, not that Sanse seemed to grasp it.

Sansa pursed her lips, like she’d swallowed a whole lemon. He had the briefest flash of Lady Catelyn before him instead of her daughter. “King _Consort_ ,” she corrected, “you would be in a position of great influence. Don’t you see? As her husband, you could see to the North’s future directly, protect our interests.”

The Maesters might never have claimed Jon to be the sharpest student, but he was clever enough, perhaps more clever than Sansa night ever give him credit for. Carefully, mildly, he asked a question of her, watching her face with solemn scrutiny. “But if I am in King’s Landing, assuming this Dragon Queen decides to wed herself to me, who would be here? To serve as Warden, perhaps, as Father did? And his father before him?”

She smothered the eagerness that flashed across her face quickly. Jon could credit her with that. Sansa was remarkably good at masking her true emotions. But she wasn’t perfect, and she had slipped, just then, just a little, just enough.

“Well, I suppose I must offer myself to such position, as the eldest trueborn Stark. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” The implication was there, the twitch of her lips and the icy cold in her eyes. Unspoken, she might as well have said: _And you are not a Stark._

There it was, at last laid bare, her true motivation. He was unsurprised; Sansa had surely struggled to hide her frustration when he had been named King, when a bastard had been chosen instead of Ned Stark’s eldest trueborn child. However, he had foolishly hoped she might be able to set her bitterness aside, for all their sakes. 

Only the trio of them remained, now, but Sansa still persisted in putting her own interests first.

“Aye,” Jon said at last, his eyes falling to the scroll. He waved a hand dismissively towards her, a move he knew would irritate her, as he studied Tyrion’s words once more. “You’ve said what you meant to. I’ll hear no more just now.”

“But I—“. Her distress was patently obvious, her interruption tight and shrill.

He felt the air beside him shift, knew Arya had come to stand just over his shoulder, which would no doubt incense Sansa further. 

“Go, Sansa.” The hard steel in Arya’s voice made it clear that it was much more command than request.

An angry rustle of skirts signaled Sansa impending exit, but not before she spat one final terse command, no doubt meant for Arya. “Talk some sense into him!”

The silence that fell as the door slammed closed was welcome, but Jon knew it could not last. He released the breath trapped under his ribs, resigning himself to the twin stares of his advisors. He pinched his nose between his thumb and index finger, slumping down in his chair. “What?” he mumbled.

Arya chuckled, picking up the missive again. “I think you may have to do this.”

And he thought she would be on his side. He glared at her. “And why would I subject myself to this…” he tossed his hand to the side searching for the word. “Show,” he finally spat.

“Not a show,” Davos said, taking the missive. He scanned it now. “I think it might do some good. No one says you have to bend the knee. You can meet this Dragon Queen. Gauge her support…or lack of it.”

“She has three dragons,” Arya said. Her pupils were dilated, she salivated over the words. 

If that was in support of going or staying Jon didn’t know, but given his younger sister’s love of the Targaryens and fancying herself Visenya, he could hazard a guess. He slumped further in his chair and closed his eyes. He used to imagine he was Daeron the Young Dragon. Aemon the Dragonknight.

His blood warmed, the wolf inside snarling with something else, something more dangerous. He shivered and knew what he had to do, even if he would gladly take on a million White Walkers single-handedly than subject himself to...to...wooing.

The cold scar in his side sent another chill through him. He heard Bran’s words in his head, the last ones his brother ever spoke to him.

_I know the truth, Jon. The truth of your mother. And your father._

He stiffened and he finally looked at both of them again, vibrating and waiting on his response. “I don’t suppose I have much of a choice, do I?” he demanded.

Arya happily bounced over to him. “No you don’t.” She patted his shoulder while Davos picked up quill and ink to respond to the message. She cackled. “Cheer up Jon, I heard she’s the most beautiful woman in all the known world. At least you might find some serious competition for who has the prettiest hair.” She lunged to ruffle his curls and he swatted her back, snarling. 

He stood and went to the massive hearth, Ghost padding silently to join him. In the dingy reflection of a looking glass on the mantelpiece, he reached to tuck a curl behind his ear, snorting to himself. Most beautiful woman in the known world and him...the bastard...the dead man walking…

Her nephew.

He was not certain he believed it, the tale Bran had disclosed beyond the Wall, before the Night King had come, before Jon died. His only proof were the words of a boy who’d lost his legs then lost himself, his little brother who’d taken to calling himself the Three-Eyed Raven, had known things he could not, had spoken in riddles and puzzles when pressed.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. Even if it were true, the things Bran claimed, the inherent danger in it made the knowledge easy to bury deep within his mind. It seemed sensible, even, not to dwell on it, just to add it to the list of possibilities that were best left unanswered. But he was all too aware that this _possibility_ drove some of his reluctance, because he could not shake the notion that if he went, if he saw these dragons in the flesh, then he would KNOW. And if he knew, if the truth blazed to life in his blood, eventually, he would not be able to ignore it.

There were some truths he was not ready to face. Not now, perhaps not ever. He could be Jon Snow, the King in the North, Ned Stark’s bastard. That was a skin he could slip into easily. The shape of it was familiar. And if he stayed here, that was all he had to be, but it did not seem to him that there was any way out of this predicament. Best, then, to face it head on, and be done with it.

“Jon, come here lad, sign this,” Davos called, rousing him from his brooding.

Jon heaved another sigh and went to sign the cursed thing. They would leave soon enough and he had no intention of getting there quickly. There were still plenty that needed doing. First and foremost— “We have to talk about Sansa.”

Davos and Arya exchanged looks, nodding. “Aye,” Davos murmured. He stood and took the scroll. “I will leave it to you two.”

They waited for him to leave, door swinging heavy behind him. Jon waited and went over, throwing the squeaking bolt into place, lest they get visitors. He returned to the window where Arya had perched herself again, both gazing down to the yard, at Sansa directing men near the forge. “What are we going to do with her?” Arya murmured.

Jon closed his eyes. “I’m still working that one out.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache building in his temples, ready to be alone, to be left to ruminate on this in peace. “In the meantime, you’d best get to packing your things.” He mustered up a small, thin smile, one Arya returned, though no doubt she saw right through his feeble attempt at lightheartedness. “We’ve got dragons to see.”

\-------------

**Dragonstone**

Daenerys did not believe in Gods.

Life had taught her many hard lessons, and chief amongst them was that if she meant to succeed, to survive, she could only believe in one thing: herself.

But as she sat upon the carved stone throne, the cheeks of her arse beginning to ache, straining to maintain the pleasant, interested smile she’d pasted on, she found herself wishing she had faith in someone other than Daenerys Targaryen.

Perhaps the Seven might be able to save her from the exercise in futility.

Olenna stifled a chuckle as the young Lord of the Vale, Robyn Arryn, gave a low, dramatic bow. “Hardly more than a boy,” she whispered, her eyes never straying from the child. “Absolutely not.”

She fought the urge to roll her eyes and gave a gracious dip of her chin, as Lord Arryn straightened. “Thank you for coming, my Lord.”

_And I shall thank you for leaving in short order_ , she thought, as the boy adopted a simpering expression, nudged forward by one of the Valemen flanking him. “Ah, the pleasure is mine, Your Grace,” he said, in a voice that cracked tellingly, the sound of a boy just entering the early stages of manhood.

Olenna was right. This would never do. She gave the young Lord a tight smile, letting her eyes wander over the crowd of prospects that had gathered. This boy made the twelfth. Among the number milling about the left side of her throne room were a Dornish prince, who seemed polite enough, if not a bit predictable. There were two Tyrells from the Reach, matches she entertained for Olenna’s benefit, even if she found them less than impressive. Along with them were two rather simple-minded minor Lords from the Westerlands, distant Lannister cousins that she had ruled out immediately, not trusting the hungry gleam in their eyes, nor the ill taste their name left in her mouth. There were three more Lords who had arrived from the Stormlands, rough looking men who had given her positively lascivious looks in turn, a rather sullen looking Warden of the Riverlands, whose young wife had recently died, and two Ironborn who frankly seemed more interested in their ships and their drink than pursuing a match.

All in all, she thought, disheartened, it was not exactly what she had hoped for. But she had agreed to this, and she would see it through, do her duty. She wanted no more war than was necessary to reclaim her family’s throne, and to manage that she needed a united Westeros behind her.

Her own happiness, it seemed, would be the cost. She wiped her palms on the skirts of her stiff-shouldered coat, adjusted the chain strung across her chest, affixed to the triple-headed dragon on her shoulder, and stood.

“Thank you, all of you, for coming,” she began.

And promptly stopped, as the doors to the throne room swung open, smacking against the stone walls with a loud bang.

She almost couldn’t believe it, what she saw padding silently into her throne room. Around her, she heard gasps, a few sparse shrieks, and what had to be the young Lord Arryn’s panicked scream. As they fell quiet the only sound was the slow click of nails, as the largest wolf she’d ever seen stepped steadily towards her.

“Your Grace--”

She heard Missadeni but she did not take her eyes off the massive white beast, almost as large as a horse, it’s red glowing gaze locking on to hers and holding it firmly. “Don’t move,” she whispered, “any of you.”

Releasing a shaky breath she stepped forward, slowly, each boot placed carefully before the other, until she had descended the stairs that led to her carved throne. The wolf paced, finally breaking his stare to bare his teeth menacingly at the Dothraki guard to his left, who drew their arakhs at the sight.

“No,” she said clearly, and though she saw Qhono disagreed with the order he obeyed, and lowered his weapon, though he did not sheath it. The distraction was enough that she missed the entrance of the three figures now standing in the doorway to the hall.

But they had appeared all the same, a lone voice piercing the quiet, stern and firm. “Ghost!” The wolf’s head swung around, now mere feet from where she stood, and the creature let out a low whine. “To me.”

Not a wolf, she realized, as the animal padded back to the source of the voice, and she realized who this guest must be. For all the suddenness of his entrance, he was a welcome sight, if not unexpected. Tyrion had expected him two days prior; that he had not arrived had led her Hand to believe that he would not come, but here he was.

Jon Snow, the King in the North.

He looked every inch the title, and she found herself rather intrigued as he scowled at the beast, chiding him like one would a wayward child, with a light cuff to his ears. He possessed the bearing of a king, with his back straight, almost militaristic like her Unsullied. The command his entrance demanded left no doubt, all focus in the room on him, many still in fear of the beast. 

She narrowed her gaze, taking in the messy, knotted tangle of his dark curls, a pale narrow face with a short dark beard swathing his jaw. His armor was tarnished, his cloak matted and damp. His boots were dirty, wet sand and mud clinging to the soles, tracking on the black stone floor. He wore no sigil, but a man behind him wore armor with a loping wolf, a banner of a white wolf on a gray background: the inverted sigil of House Stark. The bastard sigil, for the Bastard of Winterfell.

Jon Snow.

All the men gathered around arrived in their best of their finery: Crushed velvet, jewels, ropes of gold and silver, showing their wealth and promise. Save the Iron Born, of course, but that’s because if it didn’t involve reaving or one of their ‘blasted ships’ they cared nothing for it, as Olenna said. 

This King in the North, as he called himself, looked like he had spent several days in the dungeons. Or rolled with the pigs in the yard before coming to treat with a queen. She wasn’t sure what to make of it, not in the slightest.

His eyes fixed on her. They were a peculiar color. Gray, at the same time reminding her of cold steel and of the warm ash leftover from her sons’ flames. They were not apologetic for his tardiness nor deferential to her regency. Rather, he seemed bored already, one hand on the great wolf beast, whose head came to his shoulder, like a horse. He barely acknowledged her and did not bow.

Her eyebrows arched, hands tightly folded in front of her. She said the first thing that came to her mind. “Jon Snow, the Warden of the North, I presume?” She refused to acknowledge his claim to be king. 

And to her surprise, this Jon Snow, smiled, a flash of white teeth against the close cropped dark beard. “I am no Warden, or Lord besides, which you well know. A bastard, yes, but the King as well, and I would expect to be addressed as such.” A tight, false smile passed his lips, his teeth flashing white in the afternoon sun. “Your Grace.”

Her eyes widened, burning hot. She sputtered inwardly, clamping down hard on her instinct to snap back at him, for he dared...he presumed...she was... _she was the Queen_! And he...he...her thoughts cut off at the huffing and slapping of feet on stone from behind her. She glared sideways to Tyrion who had rushed to her side. He wheezed, holding a stitch in his side. “Jon, you...made it. We were worried…” 

Tyrion’s placating simpering was not what she needed. She had to regain control before all her subjects present and gods forbid one be her future husband. They might believe they could get away with treating her like no one, like a pretender. She cut Tyrion off, sarcasm dripping in her false concern. “You are late, Your Grace,” her nostrils flared with emphasis on the demanded title. “And in rather unkempt fashion. Would you have preferred some time to refresh yourself before this audience?” Her amethyst eyes hard chips on his icy grey ones, something about his absolute lack of concern for her time or for the others assembled. She wrinkled her nose. “Or is this how all Northerners dress to meet royalty?”

A nobleman would be embarrassed, would at least attempt to show shame for his state before her, but this...this…. _bastard…_

He smiled again. He _smirked_.

“You have never been to the North, Your Grace. If you had, I’ve no doubt you would realize I am dressed quite fine to greet royalty, to be sure I am probably more ‘presentable’ than most in the North, and they would not disagree.” His vowels rolled softly and his voice was raspy and deep, the accent quite harsh to her ears, accustomed to the poetic Valyrian and the crisp Common Tongue of the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. It reminded her of the Dothraki, briefly, unabashed in how they sounded and behaved. 

He turned to an older man standing beside him, a couple of steps backwards. “I am sure you would agree, Ser Davos, as a newcomer to the North.”

The man chuckled, his accent different but no less harsher. “Aye, Your Grace, the King in the North is one of least offensive to look upon, so far as Northerners go.” She pressed her lips together to keep the small chuckle that had risen captive, the hackles this rather rude young King had raised being soothed by his much more approachable Hand.

A young boy snorted behind him, hand resting on a slim bladed sword. “Ha! Hear that Jon? Pretty. Or close enough.” The young lad shifted on his feet, amused, gray eyes scanning the throne room shrewdly. He reminded Dany of a curious little barn cat, eyes searching for something only he knew.. And then the boy fixed his look upon her and Dany drew back . He was not a boy but a young girl, hair sliced short at her chin, wearing breeches and a cloak with one shoulder, a simple wolf brooch pinned at the neck.

The eyes were similar to this king. She wondered if they were related. She had lost control over this introduction, her hands clammy and tight before her. She had to get it back, immediately. She clenched her teeth. “Regardless, my lord…”

“Apologies your Grace,” this Ser Davos interjected. The jovial smile now replaced with a stern frown. He nodded to the other man. “But Jon is to be addressed by his title. He is a King.”

Her jaw detached, almost dropping clear to the floor. Tyrion used her furious shock to hurry his words. “We are grateful you have arrived, the seas can be unkind this time of year coming from the North…”

“The seas were kind, we just made a stop at Storm’s End for a few extra days,” the feral wolf interrupted.

Finally Tyrion shared her shock. He gaped a moment, this king as he called himself staring down her Hand. “You...you stopped your journey?”

“I heard tell there was a new Lord of Storm’s End. I wanted to treat with him.” Jon jerked his head towards the young woman. “And my sister wanted to search for an old friend.”

“You…” Dany began, about to reprimand him for his impertinence before her. She could forgive his haphazard appearance as being due to travel, a necessary evil for those who did not find themselves in possession of a dragon, and she could forgive his rather brusque behavior, to a point. But he remained the only man who seemed as though he loathed the idea of even being there, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, words dying on her lips as she saw the spark of challenge in the Northern King’s eyes.

Olenna had taken her time to walk over to them, her cane slamming heavily on the stone with every careful step. She put on the look of an old woman when Dany knew she was anything but that. She surveyed this so-called king and lifted her cane, wagging the silver tip of it to his muddy boots. “I knew your father, boy.” A gnarled finger gestured towards his unkempt attire. “Ned Stark would be ashamed to see his blood presenting themselves before a Queen like this!” At the girl’s chuckle, behind a stunned and now-abashed Jon, Olenna scowled and smacked her cane against the girl’s back, forcing her to stand straighter. “And you, Lady Arya! Straighten up! Was your lovely sister born with all the manners in your household? Gods help me. And you…” she turned her piercing gaze on Davos. She smirked. “I have yet to be introduced.”

“Ser Davos Seaworth, milady, Hand to His Grace.” He bowed his head and smiled warmly. “And you are Lady Olenna of House Tyrell.” There was no mistaking the wryness to the old Hand’s voice as he placed a courteous kiss on Olenna’s bony knuckles. “The Queen of Thorns, they say.”

Dany desperately wanted to rub her temples to stave the headache forming there. She swallowed back her instinct to lash out, her smile tight, skin cracking near her eyes at the forced movement. “My lord,” she said, ignoring his title, “I am...glad...you have arrived safely and will excuse your tardiness this time. You will be shown to your rooms to freshen up.”

“And your weapons confiscated,” a soft voice beside her reminded them. It was Missandei, a small smile flirting on her lips.

Tyrion nodded smartly. “Of course.”

The King in the North glowered, his hand automatically shooting to the white wolf pommel of a handsome sword. It intrigued her, to see such sentimentality, for that was surely what it was. The man’s eyes traveled to the white wolf beside him, but the one he called Ghost paid his master no mind. He stared unflinchingly at her, red eyes unblinking, examining her. She tried to break away but could not. The wolf never moved, scarcely breathed.

And very slowly, the beast blinked, once and then twice. Lifting his head to his master, Jon glanced at him and nodded. He gestured to the girl. “Arya, it’s fine.”

“I think not! They will take Needle from my cold dead fingers!”

“Arya,” he snapped.

Dany took another look at the wolf, her stomach warming, twisting, and skin pebbling under her stiff, structured dress. She wanted to loosen her collar, the wool growing itchy at her neck. _The wolf spoke to him_. The idea was laughable. If she did not have such a relationship with Drogon and her sons, she wouldn’t dare to even entertain such preposterous possibilities. 

She ran her tongue over her teeth, swallowing hard again. “I fear I have had many enemies over the years, and I wield no weapon of my own. My Dothraki and Unsullied are fierce, and skilled, but they cannot always protect me.” She could feel the King’s eyes on her, but she chose to focus, for the moment, on the short, sullen Lady at the Northern King’s side. “You are my guests, not my prisoners, but I must ask that if you are to stay, you abide by the same terms as my other guests have. If not,” she said, noting the way the King seemed to twitch at her next words at the periphery of her vision, “I must ask you to leave.”

Brother and sister turned to stare at each other, then, matching gray eyes communing silently, but with marked tension. 

“We will stay, Your Grace.” Arya Stark looked greatly displeased but she unbuckled her sword belt, begrudgingly handing over her thin, smart blade to Qhono.

The King was the last to comply, but he did, and while it only served to make him look more disquieted, she couldn’t smother her own light sigh of relief.

“Well, then.” Aware of all eyes on her, she turned away and paused, a step later. She rolled her eyes sideways, head barely turning, and cautioned, “I will see you for the feast this evening, Lady Arya.” She nodded to the slim girl, a small unbidden smile rising to her lips as she saw Jon Snow’s face twisted in minor annoyance.

It was almost troubling how comely he looked, face tight with irritation, dark eyes landing on her only to shift away quickly. “King Jon.” There was a light teasing to her voice, one that only served to feed the King in the North’s frustration, judging by the way his jaw grew tighter, hands clenching at his sides.

A hand on his shoulder from Ser Davos kept whatever Jon Snow wanted to say tamped down. He scowled and clicked his heels together. “Your Grace.”

As if on cue, her connection in her mind tugged to the other end where Drogon waited, bringing him closer, and sensing her annoyance and her need to remind these men exactly who they were dealing with, a massive shadow cast over the hall. Followed by a piercing shriek, and soon several more, her sons swooping above. They came dangerously close to the stone walls, their shadows passing so continuously overhead that for moments the room was a constant shift from light to dark, one dragon’s shadow slipping past only to be replaced by another.

She was pleased to see the brief terror in the eyes of the men, maybe a little apologetic at the white faced look on young Lord Arryn. It was the ducking of the King in the North that had her gleeful. The girl next to him had wild eyes, mouth open, more excited than frightened. 

The wolf looked at her, grey eyes staring straight into her violet ones. 

Dany chuckled, skirts swishing with her turn, and she loudly proclaimed, strong and decisive, for all to hear in the chamber:

“Welcome to Dragonstone.”

\------------

**_Jon_ **

Bloody hells.

Bloody fucking hells.

He stared at himself in the leaded looking glass, his finely-appointed quarters almost mocking him for his earlier behavior towards the Dragon Queen. These apartments were outfitted far more luxuriously than those reserved for the ruling Stark in Winterfell. Or Snow, as the case had come to be.

His damp hair hung about his face and ears, and if he squinted he could still see that green boy, somewhere in his reflection. Jon had truly thought that boy dead, but he had roared back to life humiliatingly enough, the moment the Bastard King had laid eyes on Daenerys of House Targaryen, so proud and lovely from her throne.

His gray eyes looked more iron than steel, this night, and he was tempted to forgo this little welcome feast altogether in favor of brooding in his room, privately, and trying to sort out exactly how he was going to stop from throwing himself before her feet and begging for her hand.

It was just lust, he cautioned himself, that roar of pumping blood that had surprisingly filled his ears, and had not stopped, since.

He was fucked. If he didn’t try to make a quick, tidy trade alliance, and perhaps secure some sort of extra-military assistance should it be required, he was fucked, that was all there was to it, because Jon knew himself well. He’d had inordinate amounts of time to make his own acquaintance, fully, at the Wall.

Everything about her was a potential weakness to him, and he would need to do his level best to maintain a cool, disinterested facade around her, because now he had seen her, and the tales hadn’t done her justice at all.

But it was not just her beauty. It was that, and the melody of her voice, each word falling from her lips like a song, even when edged with a flaring irritation that Jon found frighteningly attractive.

It was this invisible, unbidden pull.

_Something in the blood. Yes, that’s it._

He stared at himself and glared. That was all it had to be, it was easier that way, a decent explanation. If he even believed Bran, and in the days leading up to their final victory over the Night King and his dread Army of the Undead, it had been hard to believe anything the young man had said. He was still sorely lacking any sort of proof, to be sure.

But if it was true, perhaps this ferocious attraction that had been borne inside his chest the moment their eyes had met was merely one beyond his ability to control. Best to hide it, then, as best he could, because neither her beauty nor her dragons were enough, at this moment, to change his mind when it came to marriage.

He hadn’t come here for that, he mused, smoothing his hair back and binding it with a leather tie. He would negotiate on trade, let Arya get a chance to see this beautiful, exotic Queen’s dragons, and leave.

That would be it.

Jon nodded to himself smartly in the mirror in encouragement, then drew a clean tunic over his head.

Yes, that would be it. He would not be swayed.

The King in the North finished dressing just as a knock sounded at his door, the briefest of heartbeats passing before Arya barged in, still dressed in decidedly unladylike fashion, but like himself, much cleaner than she had been on arrival.

His sister eyed him up and down, and then finally met his eyes, her own giddy with excitement. “Don’t ruin this, Jon. I want to see that big black dragon up close. Try to stay on her good side.”

Jon laughed and ran his hand across his chin, extending an elbow to lead Arya to dinner. “So long as she stays on mine, Sister.”

Arya’s quiet curse under her breath had him chuckling the rest of the walk.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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